


As I Burn Into The Evening

by jadebloods



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Dirk's Issues, Masochism, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Robotics, Robots, Sexualized Violence, Underage Character, Urine, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You wonder at what point you finally lost control of your life to a digital imprint of your thirteen-year-old psyche ensconced in a pair of sunglasses.</i> Loneliness, misery porn, masochism, and robosex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Burn Into The Evening

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is partially inspired by [an RP log that I did a long-ass time ago with genericUsername](http://cel3stial.com/forums/showthread.php?tid=14355). The reason why will be more apparent in the second chapter, which I haven't even started writing yet. This first chapter has been sitting on my hard drive for months, waiting for me to make progress, but it just isn't happening right now so I figured I might as well post what I do have.
> 
> This is what I've been lovingly referring to as my "misery porn". I just love putting Dirk through the worst things I can imagine. So if you like beating up on Dirk, let's be friends.
> 
> Be sure to read the tags for content warnings. EMETOPHOBIA WARNING: There's barf in this. It's brief, nonsexualized, and really just water. I'm emetophobic myself, and I could handle it, but I wouldn't want you to be startled by it.
> 
> EDIT: Holy crap, [tumblr user shadesofdirk drew fanart for this fic](http://shadesofdirk.tumblr.com/post/38572039125). It is awesome, go check it out!

When you wake up, the sun is already low on the horizon, painting the water a deep orange that shifts gradually to purple. You open your mouth to take a breath, and your lips crack in half a dozen places. The air dragging across your dry tongue makes you feel flimsy like paper, so you breathe through your nose instead to conserve moisture. You close your eyes again, and your eyelids feel hot and almost _sandy_ , some kind of grainy bullshit that makes your eyes want to water, but they can't. Even if you wanted to cry, it would be fuckin' impossible. Closing them is easier than opening them, though. You lay like this for a while, trying not to think about the pain of your shoulders and tailbone digging into the roof's unforgiving concrete, or the pounding in your head like an 808.

You have to piss, and that's almost the worst part. You are in dire fucking need of a piss, but even if you could sit up right now and aim yourself just enough to get the stream off of your stomach, you sorta feel like it'd be a bad idea. You aren't even sure if dehydration works like that; maybe holding it in would just make things worse? The pressure on your abdomen just adds a layer of misery to the buzzing sensations running through your body while you try to pull yourself together.

At some point you have the wherewithal to reach out blindly and grab your shades, and when you put them on, you realize AR has been talking to you.

TT: You just gonna take a nap now? One titanium uppercut and lights out, that's it?  


TT: Fine, I'll handle these assholes. Tell me when you wake up.

You flip on the voice recognition and try to speak, but all you can manage is a croak.

TT: It seems as though the wretched sack of viscera is trying to communicate with me. If you're conscious, make another unintelligible noise. 

You swallow thickly and try again. This time, words tumble out like gravel. "I can't move. Send Squarewave up with some water."

TT: With those metallic sausage fingers? You know as well as I do that he wasn't made for manual dexterity. I'll have Halbot do it. 

" _No_ ," you say with a great deal of effort. "No, fuck that guy. Make Squarewave carry it in a bucket if you have to." He can't make a smartass retort if you take the glasses off, so that's exactly what you do. The dying sun is still radiating orange in an arc across the sky that stops abruptly when it dips under the black ocean water. No clouds. There hasn't been a cloud all day and _aren't you fucking lucky_.

You have no idea how long you've been out. You'd been buzzing around on Derse in the meantime, but time doesn't really work the same way over there.

You manage to roll over on your side so that you can look away from the sun, and the movement shifts enough air around your body that you finally get a good whiff of yourself. After marinating in the sun for several hours, you smell positively sour, something like stale crotch sweat with a side of urine and bile. If not for the dull, rolling desperation in your lower abdomen, you'd think you already pissed yourself.

At some point you decide that the dignity of holding it in is contributing needlessly to your misery, but there's a significant delay between making this decision and being able to let go. You somehow coordinate your arm enough to get your fly open and pull your dick out, but all you can do is aim yourself a little bit to the side. You close your eyes and stretch your lips in a long, slow grimace, trying to overcome a lifetime of conditioning and relax your muscles. You teeter on the verge of being able to let go for so long that you almost give up, because all of this trying to fucking relax is making you do nothing but tense up even more. 

This isn't working. You need to switch tactics. Instead of thinking about pissing, you employ a bit of mental misdirection. You recall the sensation of hard, hot metal grabbing you by the leg and hyperextending your knee so much that you nearly white out from the pain. Yeah, you remember that. Then the same metal had flipped you over and hyperextended your shoulder. There had been a moment when you were absolutely fucking sure that it was going to dislocate-- and through the pain you had found yourself coming up with a contingency plan, figuring out how to find and convey to Sawtooth exactly how to yank it back into its socket-- but he had relented at the last possible moment. You don't know why he had done that; even now you feel like you got cheated out of a proper punishment, and isn't that a weird thing to be thinking? Anger flares deep in your chest, but so does something else. Once it had seemed inevitable, you had wanted to be _broken_ , not just knocked unconscious. This is your punishment for not being able to beat him. This is what you deserve.

_You deserve to piss yourself, you subservient piece of shit_. You command yourself to do it with a mental voice that's somewhere in the uncanny valley of almost your own but not quite. Your parasympathetic nervous system bends to the voice's will, and finally you can let go. The stream is so weak-- your body wants to hold on to as much water as possible-- that it dribbles down your hand and pools next to you, seeping into your jeans despite your best efforts. It's warm, and it stinks, and you'd probably be properly ashamed of yourself if you could feel anything at all right now. It also feels so fucking good that you should probably be sobbing with joy if you only had a bit of moisture to spare. It doesn't do anything for your headache, but the relief stretches down all the way to your toes just the same.

Moving out of the puddle would have minimal returns at this point, so you flop back down right where you are, wiping your hand off on the inside of your thigh with your dick still hanging out of your pants. You wonder at what point you finally lost control of your life to a digital imprint of your thirteen-year-old psyche ensconced in a pair of sunglasses (and apparently also sometimes echoing in your head). That's when you hear clanking footsteps from the stairwell, and you raise your eyes skyward in silent thanks when you see Squarewave's clunky feet instead of Halbot's streamlined figure. He's carrying a bucket of water, just as requested, and you force yourself not to think about what the bucket had been used for last when you put your lips to it and drink. Squarewave tilts it gently for you, but his motor skills aren't exactly up to par so a lot of it winds up sloshing up your nose and down your shirt. You couldn't give fewer fucks. 

The water is lukewarm and slightly salty, but it's the fucking godly ambrosia, the sweetest of elixirs, and you drink it down rapidly, knowing that you should slow down and pace yourself but unable to stop. You sit back, leaning on your elbows and feeling your stomach stretch uncomfortably. Waterlogged. That's the feeling. For a minute you actually believe that you can keep it down, but a few seconds later you curl over and it's coming back up all over your lap with painful retches. You're wringing out your guts like a washcloth. Fortunately you're so empty that all that comes up is the water, not even any bile. At least it dilutes the puddle of piss you'd been sitting in.

Squarewave pulls a straw out from somewhere and hands it to you clumsily. The message is clear: _Pace yourself, idiot_. You look up at Squarewave's eyes as you take the straw, and you wonder if AR is watching you through them. Who are you kidding? Of course he is. "Thanks," you say, because fuck it, dude is probably listening in too.

If your job is to handle everyone else, then AR's job is to handle you. Sometimes, this knowledge is the only thing stopping you from taking the sunglasses and throwing them into the endless brine, letting them sink for miles and miles until the circuits are fried from the saltwater and the glass is crushed under the immense weight of the ocean. Just a pair of cracked shades slowly deteriorating with the sands of time, and no ghost in the machine anywhere to be found.

It's good to know that someone has your back, even if that someone is a sadistic motherfucker. So you dip the straw into the bucket, and you drink. The straw forces you to drink slowly and take deep breaths, and you manage to keep it all down this time. You spread out your legs and prop your elbows on your knees, letting the water settle in your stomach and absorb a little bit before you try to stand up. The sun is almost completely under the ocean now, and there are vast expanses of dark purple where there was once brilliant gold and orange. This time of evening always makes you think about Derse, with its spires of deep purple, a sky of even darker black, and the faint blue impression of Skaia in the distance. Sometimes, if you squint, you can even see a smudge of yellow.

You wonder if this is what Jake feels like after being knocked out cold by Brobot. Part of you hopes not, because wow, this is really fucking shitty, but another part of you knows that this was sort of the point. One of the points. A major point, anyway. Jake also usually has the luxury of tree canopies to shield him from the direct afternoon sun, so he probably wakes up feeling a little more refreshed than you do right now. 

You stare off into the distance, watching the sun fuck the ocean, all deep, slow, and familiar, like they've been doing each other since time out of mind. In the absence of human contact, you have apparently taken to not only anthropomorphizing celestial bodies and bodies of water, but also giving them long and storied sex lives as well. 

After a while you finally start to feel like something resembling human, like something that might be able to stand up of its own accord. You grab your shades with one hand and Squarewave's arm with the other, and you pull yourself to your feet. "Thanks, dude," you say again. It's intended for Squarewave, but you have no idea if AR is still watching you through him or not.

The staircase doesn't pose too difficult of a challenge for you, which is a relief for once, and you make it back to your apartment on surprisingly steady feet. You need to eat, but the thought of it makes your stomach roll, probably because you're still covered in piss and retched-up water. The bathroom seems like a better plan. You take off your soiled clothes and toss them in a pile in a corner, setting your glasses carefully down on the edge of the sink. 

You stand naked in front of the full-length mirror and inspect yourself for serious damage. What you see is fairly familiar: lanky lean muscle from all the swimming and strifing, dark pockmarked skin from acne and sun damage, and burn scars all over the place from welding accidents. Your hair is a fucking mess, standing up wildly on top of your head, but then again when is it not? Cuts and bruises pepper your body, like red and blue-black (and sometimes green) slashes and splotches against a muted brown canvas. Many of them are new, but not all of them. You can't decide if you love or hate the way they look on you, but sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror and think you look like some kind of perverted Christmas tree. You don't see anything so serious that it needs more than just a good soaping, so you step over to the shower and turn it on.

The message indicator on your shades is blinking, so you put them on while waiting for the water to warm up.

TT: This cat-and-mouse charade you and Halbot have going on is already getting old.  


TT: I don't know if I'm more proud of how expeditiously he handed your ass to you on a gleaming precious metal platter or more disgusted by how easy you are to break.  


TT: Either way, I think this has been a roaring success. A+++ would wreck your shit again.  


TT: Spare me the self-congratulatory onanism.  


TT: Maybe we can pick this up later when I have the attention span for it. You can rub your dick in my face to your cold mechanical heart's content at that hypothetical juncture.  


TT: But for now, fuck off.  


TT: In my infinite wisdom, I really should have predicted that you'd be the special kind of mouse who enjoys the pre-evisceration foreplay.  


TT: Oh wait.  


TT: I did.  


TT: I'm not sure if "enjoy" is the right word.  


TT: You might not be sure, but I am. How's your shoulder doing?  


TT: Shut up.  


TT: Enjoy the shower. 

The water isn't quite warm enough yet, but you get in anyway. It pelts your broken skin like little fucking blades, but it hurts less when it starts to warm up. You remain standing just long enough to let the worst of the grime rinse away, and then you sit down in the bottom of the shower. This time, the water hitting your forehead feels amazing, and the massaging sensation confuses your brain into thinking your headache is gone, at least for a little while. Lateral inhibition, man. How does it work?

You reach up and grab the soap, which smells like rendered shark fat because that's what it fucking is, and it makes your stomach roll a little more. Fortunately there's nothing left inside you to come up, now that the water has settled, so you scrub yourself down as best as you can while sitting on the floor. You run your hands over your body with the crude bar of homemade soap, touching yourself gently with the slickness of the suds where those fresh cuts and bruises are blossoming. Your stomach feels empty and warm as you slide your fingers over it and then down your thighs, over your sharp knees and down to your feet. Back up, around your hips to the small of your back. To the front again, and over your chest, nipples, and shoulders. The back of your neck feels too hot and too tense, so you roll your head back and forth against your shoulders for a while, letting your hands dangle in your lap, brushing absently against your thighs. Meanwhile, you think again about how earlier it had felt like your entire neck, shoulder, and clavicle complex would snap under Halbot's grip. He'd made you feel helpless, like you had bird bones, full of air and ready to break at will, and it made your heart race. Your heart picks up speed right now just from the memory. 

You shake your head and go back to scrubbing, making sure to soap up everything, because nothing had escaped without a thick coat of grime during the direct sunlight boy-juice marinade marathon. Putting it that way makes it sound kinda sexier than it was, but then, why do you feel yourself getting hard? A question for the fucking ages, but you push it to the side for a moment while you concentrate on rinsing yourself off without standing up. You have to pivot and contort, but you manage it. Getting the piss and sweat off of you makes a world of difference, even with the slightly fishy under-smell that has permeated your existence ever since the real soap ran out a few years ago. You can hardly smell it anymore, except for when your stomach is on a hair trigger, apparently.

Trying to convince yourself that you're going to turn off the water and get out of the shower is an exercise in futility, because your business isn't done in here and you fucking know it. You just don't really want to admit it to yourself because, frankly, you don't understand it. But not knowing why certain things give you an erection has never really stopped you from indulging in them. It's not like you have any use for the human diseases of shame and propriety.

You grab your dick and pull the foreskin back, soaping up your head gently. You don't clean it every day because this homemade soap is harsh as hell, but after a day like today you really can't get away with not. After rinsing it off, you don't let go. Instead, you give it an inquisitive squeeze, and it responds by getting a little harder with a light throb. Well, fuck. Okay, you guess you're doing this. You close your eyes and lean against the wall of the shower, which is cold against your back but not unpleasant, and you start stroking yourself lazily, letting your mind wander while you try to see if you're even capable of a full erection right now.

Masturbation fantasies were never hard to come by since they were really all that you've ever had. Right now, you picture Jake sitting in the bottom of his shower and touching himself the way you are. You lick your lips subconsciously, watching water drip over his dark brown skin and muscles and thinking about what he smells like. Probably like dirt, but you've never known how really fresh dirt might smell. Or fucking… trees. Whatever, it doesn't matter. You think about him sliding his foreskin up and down over his head with those enormous fists, like you're doing to your dick right now, and letting his eyelids droop with pleasure as he… chews on his bottom lip... Oh, shit. Physiology and fantasy seem to align your favor, because before too long, your dick is hard as hell and aching for a rougher touch. You give it to yourself, gripping hard and stroking fast, biting the inside of your cheek in concentration and not giving any fucks if the muscles in your arm start to overheat.

For the sake of symmetry, you imagine that in this fantasy, Jake has just finished sparring with Brobot. Maybe he got a little too touchy with himself in the post-fisticuffs soaping ritual, or maybe he just has too much excess energy. Maybe Jake is the kind of guy who gets turned on after a fight, and honestly, that wouldn't surprise you one fucking bit. Maybe he pops a boner every time he gets into hand-to-hand combat with the robot and has to furiously rub one out afterward. Maybe it makes him think of you.

Maybe it makes him angry at you.

You shift your weight because your leg is going numb, and you double down the pressure on your dick. Your chest feels a bit tight, like you're not breathing very efficiently through the heat and the shower fog when you're taking such rapid, shallow breaths. Your mental frame shifts too, because now you're picturing Jake sparring with _you_ , like maybe he's pissed at you for all the subtle manipulation and mechanical beat-downs. Maybe he wants you to know what it feels like. He wants to break you. He forces your face down into the dirt, plants one knee into the small of your back, grabs one of your arms, and just… _pulls_. You grip the base of your dick hard with one hand and twist your hand over the head, feeling your breath catch in your chest at the thought. Fuck.

Lightheadedness settles over you, probably a result of the dehydration and all the steam in the shower getting in the way of your oxygen, but you kinda like it. It makes you feel desperate, like you need to finish before you stop being able to breathe completely. Like it's a fucking race against the clock and the limitations of your own biology. You like pushing your body's limits, although probably not as much as you'd like someone else to push them for you. Push _through_ them.

But it starts looking like you're going to lose the race, because you can see black spots blossoming over your field of vision when your orgasm meter is still only about 80% full. Your heart beats loudly in your ears, and you choke out a frustrated sob and stroke faster, ignoring the lactic acid burn in your triceps and pushing it as far as you can, but you just… you can't… you can't fucking _breathe_ is what you can't do. At first it feels amazing, the mild sense of alarm making your body tingle and buzz and intensifying the sensation in your dick, but then panic starts creeping in and wrapping tightly around your chest, constricting your every movement. You're hyperventilating and it's making everything worse. You need to get out, _now_.

You turn off the water and roll out of the shower, taking deep frantic breaths as you crawl into the hallway outside the bathroom for fresh air. Water falls off of you in rivulets and gets all over the tile and carpet, but you'll worry about that later because you need to breathe _right fucking now_ or you really will pass out again. You roll over and lie down on your back in the hallway, chest heaving, feeling the cold, dry air fill your lungs and clear your head. You sober up. You're not gonna pass out, but the panic has caused your dick to retreat back to its normal, flaccid state. Game over.

You lost again. Today just isn't your day.

The carpet sticks to your wet skin, and as it dries it starts to itch against your back and legs. Your dick has practically crawled all the way back into your body because of how cold you are, but it still takes you a while to stand up and start searching for clothes. When you do finally sit up, you see a flash of cold gray out of the corner of your eye, like one of the robots had been watching you the whole time and finally decided to abscond. Three guesses who. You cradle your head in your hands for a moment, elbows braced against your knees, trying to collect yourself. Until the day you woke up to find Halbot standing in the corner of your bedroom last week, you'd never felt quite so much like you were living with another person, even if that "person" was just the mechanical avatar of the artificial intelligence version of yourself.

The two of you needed to have a pretty serious discussion about privacy and personal boundaries and how sometimes pity was the most ruthless course of action in a person's arsenal, and you fucking hated it. But first, you needed to eat.


End file.
